They all Look at Me
by Victory Tastes Like Chocolate
Summary: Meg isn't sure she can take the horrible stares of those watching her perform. They see all the wrong things. But there is one gaze that sees what he is meant to see, and for that she will always be grateful. Can she return the favor? Oneshot slight E/M


I do not own Phantom of the Opera. Also, this is book 'verse. Not movie 'verse or musical 'verse. Love Never Dies has absolutely no place in this one shot.

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><p>The music began with the soft trilling of a flute and then, as the violins joined in, the curtain came up to reveal an idyllic scene and the corpse de ballet, the ballet rats, all ready to begin their dance.<p>

Meg Giry hated that part. In the moments before the dance began and she lost herself in the steps, she could feel their eyes on her.

She loved dancing. She loved to stretch and bend, to contract her muscles and arrange her limbs. She loved to form an awkward and ugly girl into something beautiful and elegant. She loved being good at something. She loved what she became on the stage, transforming from a thin girl with sallow skin and ink dark hair to a piece of art, something made of smooth grace.

But she hated their stares, she hated feeling them on her body as she preformed. They looked at things they should not. They didn't see what she loved.

She could feel the hot, hungry stares of the men in the audience, watching her move, staring at the skin normally covered in decent company. She felt a twisting disgust in her gut. She was too young and too ugly for such attention. Their eyes made her feel dirty and slimy. She wanted them to look away.

She could feel the eyes of the women in the audience. Their tight scandalized looks. They thought themselves above her and quite rightly. They assumed she'd grow up to be a whore. They took her skills at ballet as proof of this. Poor, ugly chit, they all thought. It was obvious to these women Meg would never have a husband. Her standing in society was at it's highest, and she could only fall from the stage down into the gutter.

Sometimes she could feel a flash of jealousy in the crowd, usually from the rich, pig faced woman who knows her gold-digging husband is cheating on her.

The stares from the other side of the stage were little better. There was the threatened gaze of La Sorelli, one of the principal dancers. She watched as the rats preformed with the jealous gaze of someone who knew they were on the way out. She noted everything wrong to make sure Meg would not become a lead dancer anytime soon.

She could feel the ambitious stare of her mother, hungry in it's own way. Unlike the more practical audience, her mother seemed convinced that Meg would marry well. Meg didn't know where her mother got this notion. She knew it was there though, that Mme. Giry had high hopes for her daughter's nuptials. Meg would catch her mother muttering to herself as she watched her daughter stretch. "Meg Giry, empress," she would murmur. The girl didn't know what that meant, but her stomach twisted uncomfortably when she heard her mother say it. The same way her stomach twisted when felt her mother's ambition through her bright, cold eyes.

There was only one look she didn't mind. The gaze of someone who understood the art she was preforming, and who appreciated her body as a painter appreciated a brush. She could feel his assessment, and understood it was about dance, not sex. He was not interested in beyond the professional. The heat of his gaze was concentrated on a singer, a chorus girl. His eyes always sought out the one that sang like a crock whenever the lady was on stage. But when Mlle Daae was not in the scene, when the rats were preforming the ballet, she could feel his gaze on her.

She did not know why his gaze rested on her more than it did the other ballet rats, but she did know his interest wasn't in her person. He watched her performance. After her mother told her about the Ghost in Box Five, the box Meg could feel the good gaze from, she thought about trying to contact him. Once she went so far as to leave a note in the box where her mother wouldn't see it.

Apparently the Opera Ghost didn't see it either, because he never replied. She wanted to know what he thought of her dancing. She knew he had valuable critiques and tips on how to better perform her steps. Though he'd never been a dancer as far as she knew, the Ghost knew what he was looking at when he looked at her. He wasn't involved in any of the petty, stupid drama of the corpse de ballet. He just wanted the art of opera to be at it's very best.

The Ghost grew to become Meg's favorite audience member. She started focusing on performing only for him, trying to shut out all the other stares, the stares of the men, the women, her mother, La Sorelli. They did not exist. She performed only for the Opera Ghost, with the understanding that he stared at what she wanted him to. The moment when the curtain came up, she imagined that the entire audience was composed of Opera Ghosts.

Gradually, Meg Giry began to change. She was still as ugly as before, still as sallow skinned and black haired. But there was a confidence about her she hadn't had before. She had a kind of arrogant ignorance of others around her. She didn't notice you and she didn't care if you noticed her. There was only one person she cared to notice. Not that many thought he existed.

Meg found herself becoming a better dancer, more dedicated and ambitious than before. She felt a blazing gratitude in her chest to the Ghost. He was her mentor, and he was her rock. He was her shelter from the people who wanted all the wrong things from her. He was the only person who understood.

People began to notice her more. As Meg's growing skill drew more attention to her, it became harder to ignore the stares she felt on her body. There were more people looking now, drawing more of La Sorelli's interest, and even the managers a few times. La Sorelli's worry and the manager's greedy curiosity made her feel sick. The more people stared at her, the more she needed the Ghost's gaze to even her out.

But, while everyone else's attention's increased, the Ghost's began to wane. He didn't look at her as much as before. Meg could feel the change as his interest became less and less about the opera, and became more and more about Christine Daae.

Meg couldn't fault him for it. She knew it was probably better if she didn't think about the Ghost in such an affectionate way. He was not her savior, he was just of a similar mind. She missed his shared consciousness, but she only wanted him to be happy. Which was true, she did want him to be happy, but she was angry that he couldn't be happy and continue to give her the support she needed.

The evening came when Christine Daae left the opera house forever. La Sorelli, mad with grief over the death of her lover, the Comte de Chagny, had resigned from the opera house. The new managers had already asked her to fill in as lead dancer. Meg's efforts to find the Ghost intensified as she realized he was no longer watching at all. She listened more carefully than before to the stories and the legends, and finally found the entrance to his lair at the Rue Scribe.

She walked gingerly down the many underground paths and found herself incredibly lost in the dark. Eventually, she heard noises in the dark. Heavy, sputtering breaths that reminded her of someone with pneumonia or consumption. She followed the sounds to a small crossroads, in which she could see a well. At the well she found a man lying on the ground. This man she had seen only once before, as he was darting into the shadows. The Ghost. "Monsieur?" she asked quietly. "Monsieur, what is wrong?"

"Who-?" he tried to sit up but he was weak. He was the source of the labored breathing. He shifted a moment to look at her, squinting at the candle she carried. "Little Giry?" he asked. She nodded. "What are-" he coughed. He was wearing his death's mask still. It frightened her a little, but she drew up her courage even as her lantern guttered.

"I- I came to thank you," she said, whispering, sitting down next to the man and set the light down on her other side. For she quickly realized that he was a man, and he was dying. This close it was easy to see that he wasn't wearing a mask at all. The dead flesh of his face really _was_ his face. "I just wanted to thank you."

"For what?" He asked, coughing.

"For seeing ballet the way I see it. For looking at me as a dancer and nothing else. Everyone else looked at me and saw a pitiful little girl or a scandal or a whore or a rat. You looked at me and saw someone who danced. It gave me courage. I will always be grateful for that." The man did not reply. "Are you quite well, sir?" she asked, concerned. He looked dead.

"I am dying," he sighed, whispering. She looked at him carefully. Besides the dead look of his face, how very, very thin he was, and besides the labored breath, which made her chest hurt to hear, his eyes looked… lost. They looked as if the man had given up.

"A doctor-"

"No, I am dying. There is nothing a doctor can do," he said. Meg nodded. She could see by his face there was nothing to be done. So she took his cold, long-fingered hand in her small one, and rested her head against his shoulder. "You- go," he said, trying to move her away. He tried with more force as her lantern burned dangerously low. But Meg was a healthy, strong girl and this man was very nearly dead.

"I'll sit with you," she murmured. "It's the least I can do. Your seeing me as a dancer... made me one. They have asked me to become a principal dancer, did you know? As far as I am concerned, I owe you everything."

She could feel his gaze on her, though she couldn't see his face. It wasn't the same gaze as before. Now it held something warm. There was a depth of gratitude in it that frightened her because it matched her own. She wasn't quite sure she understood his gratitude when she owed him everything and he owed her nothing. But it was there, and it made her feel as if she was doing something right. He coughed a little, as if trying to say something, but the strength for speech had left him. He squeezed her hand weakly, and she patted his arm to tell him she understood. Even though she didn't really understand at all.

Together, the girl and the ghost sat in the waning light and listened to the long decrescendo of sputtering breaths.

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><p>Read and review. Friendly reminder: this is a one shot. A short story. There is no more.<p> 


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